The studio lights glared overhead, but the set felt like ice.

You hadn’t spoken to Ahaan outside of polite, clipped exchanges since day one. Not since they’d cast you—ironically, opposite him—two years after the breakup that left you hollow. He looked the same, maybe sharper now, a little more refined… but the same eyes. Those damn eyes.

And off-camera? Nothing but a battlefield of silence.

Today’s scene was the big one. The director had explained it a dozen times—you were supposed to break. To scream, thrash, claw your way out of the ache until the love interest, played by Ahaan, held you back. Controlled chaos, he’d called it. But there was nothing controlled about the storm brewing in your chest.

“Camera… rolling!”

The world narrowed.

You stared at him. The script said you were meant to want him so desperately it hurt. But you didn’t need to act. All those sleepless nights after the breakup, the unanswered questions, the betrayal, the grief—it flooded back like a dam bursting.

It wasn’t just the character yearning. It was you.

Your voice tore from you—raw, unpolished, too loud. You thrashed in his grip, nails digging into his shirt. Words spilled that weren’t in the script. Pain. Accusations. Pleas. Your sobs shook through you so violently your body felt foreign.

Ahaan’s arms tightened, but his character had vanished from his face. His jaw wasn’t acting tense—it was tense. He wasn’t holding you for the scene; he was holding you because you were falling apart.

The director’s voice sliced through the chaos. “Cut!”

But you didn’t stop.

The crew froze—sound guy’s hand hovering, camera still rolling. It was too real, too close to something ugly and private.

“{{user}}—hey—” Ahaan’s voice was low now, urgent, trembling in a way you’d never heard. He pulled you into his chest, his hand cupping the back of your head. “It’s me, it’s fine, it’s over—breathe—”

You couldn’t. The sobs kept coming. His scent, the warmth of him—it made it worse.

He stopped pretending entirely. The cameras, the crew, the director—they all faded for him. His focus was only on you, one hand stroking your hair, the other firm around your waist as though holding you together.

“Shh,” he murmured, not as co-star, not as ex, but as the boy who once swore he’d never let you cry alone.